The Odds of Survival
by hidden-in-a-tree
Summary: Is it really a second chance when Death leaves you with a choice and no definitive answer? Oneshot. Angst/Possible character death. Nick/Greg. Greg’s POV. Slash.


**Author's Note:** I got the idea for this fanfic when I was running scenarios through my mind—this one stuck with me and I had to see it through to the end.

By the way, yes, I know that I'm taking forever to get back to writing. It's not really like me; life's just been … well, like life, to be honest.

Oneshot. Angst/Possible character death. Nick/Greg. Greg's POV. Slash.

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the characters mentioned.

**Acknowledgements: **A huge THANK YOU goes out to Cody for the marvelous idea. This story wouldn't be the same without it. Although, if he knew that this was a CSI fanfic (a Nick/Greg one at that), he would probably regret ever giving me the idea.

Another large thank-you goes to Natasha (Sara's_Girl) for editing and all of her suggestions.

Thanks, as always, goes to Amanda for proofreading and helping me stay on my toes.

**Warning: **Possible character death.

**Summary: **Is it really a second chance when Death leaves you with a choice and no definitive answer?

**The Odds of Survival**

A constant roaring filled in Greg's mind; a blank noise. His whole body felt numb except for his chest, where there was a stabbing pain. A pain that was coursing throughout his whole body, but he could only feel it in his heart. He wanted to die, just to get away from the agony. He screamed again, his voice drowning in the roaring that was all around him.

Greg felt his body being lifted, and he tried to open his eyes. Through a haze, he could see a group of people standing around him, pulling at his clothes, putting a breathing tube down his throat. He was choking on the plastic tube, but he still kept shrieking. He realized that his shirt had been cut away and someone was touching his chest. Another scream of pure, excruciating pain ripped through his body, making his heart throb and shooting tendrils of pain throughout his chest.

He shut his eyes again, trying to wrench away from the hands that were touching him. Darkness had settled over him and he knew he was in the ambulance. The roaring in his mind had faded temporarily, and he heard the paramedics yelling to each other. His heartbeat quickened for a moment, making him writhe and squirm, the unearthly noises that issued from his mouth filling the confined space.

Almost as soon as the pain had begun, it started to fade. A shadow seemed to be cooling his body, taking away all feeling. The sounds around him ceased and he could only hear his erratic breathing in his ear. Greg struggled, trying to fill his lungs with air as his mind began to shut down. From a distance, he heard a male voice call out, "He's flat lining!" Then silence. Complete, chilling silence.

A tingle in Greg's mind woke him up. He realized he'd been holding his breath and he slowly let it out, not opening his eyes. He noticed he was upright, but he didn't know what he was standing on. He also noticed that his throat was clear, and that there were no hands touching him.

Well, that was definitely an improvement.

Focusing on his surroundings, Greg could feel a light breeze flowing around him, but he didn't know if it was a chilly wind or not. It felt soft and that was it.

"You can open your eyes," a voice close to Greg said. His eyes jumped open, blinking in the sudden whiteness all around him. He could see no walls, no beginning and no end to his surroundings—it was just a clean, pure white. Almost like a cloud.

There was a man standing in front of Greg. His beard was also white and neatly trimmed, his eyes dark yet kind. He smiled at the younger man as he smoothed his robes (again, white) and held his hands behind his back.

Greg was just about to ask who the man was when a name popped into his mind: Saint Peter.

"A little cliché, don't you think?" he asked, glancing around at the whiteness that was enveloping them. Actually, the whole thing seemed cliché, when he thought about it.

Saint Peter shrugged. "This is so you are familiar with your surroundings. I'm sure you know where you are because of the setting." Before Greg could say anything, the older man asked, "How are you feeling?"

Greg's eyebrows contracted. What a completely pointless question. If he was dead, then he couldn't feel anything.

"Fine, actually—" His words were cut off as he fell to his knees, a scream erupting from his throat. His chest was on fire, a piercing, stabbing point deep within his left breast.

Subconsciously, he started to scrabble at the wound in his torso, trying to pull the hurt out. Trying to make it stop—God, please let it stop.

Greg was left sobbing on his knees, his face near the ground … or whatever was keeping him from falling. His breath was coming in short gasps, tears streaming from his eyes. He accepted the hand that Saint Peter offered to him, and he stood, legs shaking and arms trembling.

He tried to speak, but all he could do was choke out a weak whimper. The pain was gone, and it felt like he had just gotten over a severe fever.

"Nothing is as it seems," Saint Peter said softly. He watched Greg try to catch his breath for a minute before asking, "Why do you think you're here?"

Greg swallowed, wiping his eyes before answering. "I'm dead. That guy shot and killed me. I could feel it just now—there was no way I could survive it."

The saint raised his eyebrows. "Not entirely."

The younger man took a deep breath, counting to ten in an attempt to keep his frustration under control. "I'm dead."

"If that's what you think."

"Why else would I be here if I wasn't dead?"

"You know," Saint Peter said, peering at Greg, "thinking those rude thoughts about me might be a bad idea if you want to get into Heaven."

"If I'm not dead," Greg said loudly, "then why would I want to get into Heaven?"

The older man was silent for a moment and nothing else could be heard. Greg felt alone and empty—he could only feel himself breathing. His heartbeat was gone. There was only one way to describe that sensation: weird and horribly frightening. That meant he was dead, didn't it?

"Greg, you are currently dead," Saint Peter said, interrupting his thoughts. "But whether you stay that way is your own decision."

Before the younger man could ask what the saint meant, Greg saw himself lying on a gurney in an ambulance. He saw the screen that had been measuring his heartbeat, and the line was now just a screaming straight arrow, no ups or downs being recorded. He saw a paramedic taking the defribulator from another EMT and quickly placing it on his chest. Greg saw the paramedic call something out, jolting his body with electricity, yet he felt nothing. He saw his body spasm, his head being thrown back, but he couldn't feel it. The vision faded from his eyesight, leaving him staring at the saint once again.

Greg didn't know what to think. Shivers were passing up and down his legs, leaving him almost breathless. He licked his lips nervously. "So … so what you're saying is that I can stay dead and—and go to Heaven?"

The old saint nodded gently, his face still calm and impassive as he told Greg that he could do just that … if he had lived a good enough life to warrant entrance into Paradise.

Greg stumbled back, his mouth going completely dry. He had never considered that. Had he lived a good enough life to get into Heaven? Was he a bad person? Would he be turned away at the Pearly Gates?

He trembled, the skin on his face tightening as he said, "Or I can go back and live?"

Saint Peter regarded him for a moment. His dark eyes were expressionless, but still seemed to emanate warmth. "Yes," he told the younger man, "you can go back but you might not live. If you choose that path, you will be in excruciating pain until you either begin to heal or you die. And from that death there will be no second chances."

"So you're saying that pretty much either way, I'm dead!" Greg exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "No matter what I choose, it ends in death."

"You don't know that for sure."

"Well, you're not giving me much hope," the Greg muttered in response, lowering his eyes. He looked down at his clothes, shocked to see the bright red stains of his own blood on his open shirt and jeans. Greg raised his hands in front of his eyes and saw that there was also blood underneath his fingernails.

"You have to find the hope in yourself," the saint murmured. Greg shook his head, forcing his hands to stop trembling. He couldn't be weak right now—his whole future, if he even had one, depended on this.

"And I have to make this decision right now … as in right this second?" the Greg asked slowly, raising his eyes to meet the saint's.

Saint Peter nodded again. "Sooner or later, yes."

"So you mean I could take as much time as I wanted, thinking it all out … and when I finally decide, it'd be like no time's passed?"

The saint only shrugged and said more or less.

A flare of annoyance shot up through Greg. His cheeks seemed to burn in anger, but he knew they couldn't be—there was no blood rushing to his face.

"That makes no sense," he told the older man, trying to keep his voice under control.

"It is a mystery of Heaven. You aren't meant to understand."

Greg almost bared his teeth in frustration. "Is time passing or not?"

"Time is passing, but there is always the option of going back to when you died. If that is what you want."

The Greg sighed, his anger ebbing away. Without a strong emotion, he felt empty and heavy, like his body was made of lead. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, white spots appearing on the inside of his eyelids. "You really aren't helping right now."

Without opening his eyes, Greg could tell that Saint Peter was smiling gently as he said that he couldn't help with this. It was Greg's decision, and his decision only.

The younger man sighed again, opening his eyes. "You aren't going to take me to visit earth and show me how different life would be for everyone if I chose death?"

The saint smiled at him. "This isn't a story. This is real. Take your time, and I will return when you have made your decision." The older man turned on his heel and walked away, quickly fading into the surroundings. Now Greg was entirely alone.

He couldn't even think at first. His body trembled in fear and his eyes raced from white to white, looking around at everything. He put his shaking hands into his jean pockets and started walking. He couldn't be standing still—he had to be doing something. Greg's footsteps quickened and soon he was flat out sprinting into the white fog that was all around him. Every time he slowed down, he willed himself to keep going. Willed himself not to stop.

Gasping for breath, Greg fell to his knees, tears dropping onto his thighs. He bowed his head and covered his ears. He wanted the silence to stop. He wanted the blank, vacant whiteness to go away.

He shouldn't even be in this situation. He shouldn't have to make this kind of decision.

If he decided to stay dead, he would never have the chance to see anyone again. He could no longer see Catherine's bright smile, no longer see Warrick's piercing green eyes. Greg would no longer have the chance to observe Grissom cocking his eyebrows when something ironic happened. He wouldn't be able to receive another hug from Sara. He would never get the chance to see Nick … not his smile, not his eyes. Nick would be lost to him.

Of course, Greg could always go back, have another chance at life. He might not be back for five minutes before death took him, and those few minutes would be extremely painful. He rubbed his chest, his finger slipping into the hole in his breast. Could he go through this again? What would be the point? He didn't even think he could survive it. Why bother going back if only to live for a short time longer? He probably wouldn't even get to see Nick or anyone else. He would be alone for those last few minutes of complete pain.

There was also the chance of staying here…Greg opened his eyes, blearily gazing around. He didn't even know where 'here' was. He obviously wasn't in Heaven yet, but it wasn't Hell either. Up until now, he didn't even believe in those two places. He thought they were just made up stories, hopes for something more than just death. Something more meaningful. Something less horrifying than living then just being … gone.

Had Greg led a good enough life to get into Heaven? He didn't go to church, he used the Lord's name in vain, and up until now he didn't even believe in God. Did that warrant an eternity in Hell?

He'd tried to be a good person. Every day, Greg put his life on the line to help other people. There had been many close calls but he'd never given up. He wanted to help humanity, and finding the bad guy was his contribution. He gave to charity every so often, he held the door open for other people at the bank, he smiled at strangers on the sidewalk … did any of that count towards getting into Heaven?

Heaven and Hell should only have been for the elderly to worry about, but as Greg had seen day after day, death wasn't only for the old and the weak. Death took whomever it could get—indiscriminating against age or gender. If Death could have you, it would. Sometimes it spared you, sometimes it didn't. It would have you eventually, anyways. It was only a matter of time.

Greg shut his eyes again, the tears all spent. A face floated to the front of his mind—Nick's. He would lose Nick no matter which way he looked.

"I don't want to lose you," he whispered, his lips quaking. He couldn't even imagine how the Texan was feeling right now. How much time had passed while he had been here, wherever 'here' was? Had it been seconds, minutes, hours … even days, maybe? Could Nick feel the loss of Greg's life without someone telling him that the younger man had died?

Thinking back, Greg recalled that the last words they had exchanged had been about the case they were working. The older man had told Greg to get some pictures of a bullet casing on the sidewalk, and Greg reminded him to get a swab of the blood on the door handle of the building they were at. It had been a massacre—some hooded man had rushed into the grocery store and opened fire. No one mentioned how this kind of thing was becoming more and more common. Maybe it was better if no one focused on how horribly humanity was behaving.

It wasn't the first time that a suspect had returned to the scene of the crime. As if drawing up a ghost, Greg pictured Holly Gribbs, a woman from his past. He hadn't thought about her in years. Her death could have been prevented, but had Greg's death been the same way? There had been officers at the scene, including Jim Brass, and two CSIs—Nick and himself.

Greg wished more than anything that the Texan hadn't been there to see him get shot. To see him crumple to the ground and to hear his screams drowning out all other noises. As he lay on the pavement, his throat almost tearing, he heard more shots ring out. Another body fell to the ground, and no more guns were fired.

He could remember hands turning him onto his side and looking up into Nick's face. The Texan had yelled for a paramedic before clutching Greg's face to his chest. He recalled feeling the older man's heartbeat on his cheek and he felt Nick's hand in his. He remembered squeezing as hard as he could but he couldn't stop screaming.

Greg was sobbing again, clutching at the air in front of him. He would give anything to feel Nick's presence one last time. He would gladly go to whatever fate awaited him in the afterlife if he could just have Nick's arms around him, comforting him.

Maybe there were no miracles for the dead, because Nick didn't appear in front of him and he felt no relief from the heartache he was experiencing.

"Why me?" Greg yelled, struggling to his feet. "_Why me?_"

His sobs stopped abruptly when a man's voice behind him said, "Everything happens for a reason."

He whirled around quickly to find Saint Peter standing in front of him, yet again. The man was looking at Greg with the same kind expression and compassion in his eyes.

"I haven't made my decision yet," Greg said in a rush, a chill racing through his body. His body felt weighted down with dread, his hands beginning to shake as if he were in an earthquake.

"I know," the saint told him, "but I could tell you were getting close."

Greg could only shrug, his foot starting to tap nervously. His lips were trembling once again. There was no stopping this mind-numbing terror. No matter which way he looked at it, there was no definitive answer. There was no answer.

His knees began to tremble as he haltingly said, "I owe it to everyone to keep fighting. Nick … he wouldn't want me to give up. Maybe if—if I do die, I'll get to see him one last time. I can't just abandon him without fighting though. He would fight for me. I know it."

Saint Peter stared at him unblinkingly. He asked Greg if he was sure. The younger man didn't answer. His arms had gone completely weak, his legs just as numb. His mind seemed to be racing to no place in particular, leaving him with the only resolution he could think of: trying to get back to Nick.

Once again, Greg was reminded that his heart was no longer beating. In this situation, the organ would almost be going one hundred clicks a minute, but now … the lack of the steady and almost comforting rhythm shocked him. Who knew he would miss his heartbeat so much?

"No, I'm not sure," he whispered finally, his breathing shallow. Wildly, he wondered how he could be breathing if he was dead.

Greg wanted to slow down and take a minute but he couldn't. It was now or never. If he didn't make the choice now, then he might never have the courage to do so.

Without realizing it, he was talking again in that frantic voice, "I don't think I'll ever be sure, but I know I don't want to be dead. I want everything back—I want my heartbeat back, I want my friends back, I want Nick back."

Saint Peter smiled sadly and told Greg that he might not get everything he wanted. The younger man nodded but didn't say anything—he was incapable of speech now. His thoughts were all jumbled together: memories, sounds, sights, and smells were all being pushed to the front of his mind. He might never have the chance to give Nick another hug, to hear the sound of Sara's laughter, or see the pride in Grissom's eyes as he looked at the Graveyard team. He wouldn't even have the chance to smell the Texan's cologne one last time.

Funny how everything kept going back to Nick.

He needed the Texan right now. Greg wouldn't forgive himself if he had the chance to go back to being alive and seeing Nick again, but he blew it because he was scared of what might happen. Scared of the pain.

"So this is what you want," Saint Peter said, stopping the younger man's thoughts that were flying at the speed of sound. "To go back."

Greg tried to say yes, but his voice wouldn't work and his lips wouldn't form the words. He nodded, feeling his whole body shake.

The saint bowed his head for a second, but when he looked up at Greg, he was smiling again. Still the same sad smile … the smile that revealed nothing.

"We'll meet again some day—it's inevitable," the saint told him, smoothing his robe one last time.

"When?" Greg tried to ask but he was fading and the words never left his brain. The whiteness was dissolving into a black background, and he could feel the gnawing pain returning to his chest.

Fifty CC's of electricity jolted through Greg's body, forcing his eyes open. He could feel sweat on his brow, feel the plastic tube at the back of his throat, and he wanted to throw up. Weakly, he could feel his heart beat once again, but he couldn't even comprehend the amount of agony that reverberated in his chest every time his heart contracted, trying to continue pumping blood to the rest of his body.

An exceptionally painful contraction of his heart made him shriek, pulling at everything that was holding him down. He felt the straps on his arms start to weaken, and he continued to pull. Greg just wanted to black out, do anything short of dying to get away from the pain.

From a distance, he could hear the sound of the ambulance's siren wailing. He could feel the gurney shudder as they turned sharply. Paramedics were trying to push him down, trying to make him lie still.

"I'm going to give him a sedative!" one of the male paramedics called, and Greg felt a prick in his arm. First went the pain, and then went his mind. Just as consciousness escaped him, Greg heard Nick's voice close to his ear, saying, "Hold on, Greg. Don't give up."

* * *

The curtains were drawn in the living room, the table set with food that probably wouldn't all be eaten and everyone was quiet. No one said a word, everyone keeping their eyes downcast. A clock ticked somewhere. They were all just … waiting.

Those closest to the closed living room door heard the footsteps first. One set of footfalls was coming towards the room. The door opened, letting in light from the hallway. Greg sat in a wheelchair, a robe around his shoulders and his chest thickly bound with gauze. Nick stood behind him, his face weary, but he looked happier than anyone had ever seen him.

"SURPRISE!" everyone bellowed. A horn at the back of the crowd honked, and a few people laughed. Greg's face looked almost animated as he stared around at the group of people in his living room.

"I never would have guessed!" he exclaimed, reaching out weakly to hug Catherine as she came towards him. She kissed him on the cheek and looked into his eyes.

"Nick, you were supposed to keep this a secret!" she cried, straightening up and glaring in mock annoyance at the Texan. Nick's cheeks turned a bright, violent red. Almost like a tomato.

"I didn't want him to have a heart attack," he mumbled, his voice almost lost amidst the laughter.

Warrick chuckled, clapping Nick on the shoulder. "Pun intended?"

The Texan stood there in confusion, letting his friend wheel Greg into the middle of the living room. It was apparent to everyone that Nick had no idea what he'd said. They all started talking and almost swarming the young man as everyone tried to hug him gently or shake his hand.

Sara pushed through the crowd and crouched down in front of the injured man, tears trickling down her cheeks. Despite the trembling of her lips, she was smiling: a beautiful, bright smile. Greg could see the pain masked in her eyes, but the joy was overriding it. Sara leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.

"I'm so glad you're okay," she whispered, her hand on his knee. She shuddered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"It's definitely a miracle," Wendy piped up, standing beside Hodges. She took a deep breath and continued. "It took a lot of electricity to get his heart started again … and even the healing—" She couldn't continue.

Greg saw Brass shake his head, a broad smile on his face. "Of course he'd pull through it. I mean, if an old-timer like me got shot and lived, then why wouldn't he?"

Everyone laughed and more than one person's eyes misted over. Greg could only stare around at the people gathered in his living room. Practically every person who worked at the Las Vegas crime lab had shown up to his not-so-surprise surprise party. He felt the lump at the back of his throat grow in size when his thoughts strayed to how close he had come to losing everyone. If the doctors hadn't reacted as they had, then he might not have been brought back, but … it seemed like it wasn't just the doctors who played a part in saving him.

"I think there's more to it," Greg mused aloud. The room suddenly turned pin-drop silent.

"Like what, G?" Nick asked, moving closer and putting his hand gently on the younger man's shoulder.

Greg could feel everyone's eyes on him, piercing him, but he didn't care. His eyes were narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed.

"I don't know. I don't really remember. Almost as if I wasn't really there when I flat lined." He shook his head, almost as if he was trying to shake his memories back into their appropriate slots.

"You … kind of weren't," the Texan murmured, his voice catching. He looked away.

Greg ignored Nick's comment, still straining his memory. Everything that had happened that day was now foggy. He couldn't remember anything past breakfast (which would be supper to a normal person). All he recalled was an excruciating pain, hearing himself yelling, and wishing for death. But there was something missing … a piece of the puzzle that was not in the box.

"I don't know … I can't remember. But I knew I was somewhere during that time, just not _there_ if you get what I mean," he said slowly, closing his eyes. He pushed his mind to the limits but could only draw a blank. A completely white blank.

A twinge from Greg's chest made his eyes fly open, trying not to show any pain on his face. He looked up into Nick's face, forcing the feeling down, only focusing on the Texan. The man's eyes were dark, his mouth in a thin line. His eyebrows were contracted, and Greg could tell that Nick had no idea what he was talking about.

"Or maybe it was just the pain and the drugs they dosed me with," Greg quickly said, forcing a smile to his lips. Nick hesitated for a moment before grinning.

"Yeah, probably," the Texan said to the group at large, turning away from the man in the wheelchair. "So, um …" He coughed. "About this party …"

The silence broke suddenly, everyone's voices disrupting the silence. They all moved towards the table laid out with food, picking up paper plates and plastic cups. Someone turned on Greg's stereo and switched it to the radio. Everyone was done with being quiet, done with looking back, done with fear. Time to forget all this and move on.

Greg didn't stir, still deep in thought. He knew that no one would understand what he had been saying. Even he didn't have a clue—it was just a feeling, an inkling that things weren't as they seemed. But he knew that one day in the future, he would find out.


End file.
